No Breadcrumbs in Space
by Chyme for the Rhyme
Summary: Home, you think, where Parent is not. And deep in the stars, a small story unfolds. (Or, in other words, the smallest of Ben's necrofriggian children goes on a journey of self-discovery)


Out there in the dark, with only the stars to serve as lanterns, it is cold. And you shiver, not because you are cold, but because the temperature glides across your skin like the caress of a hand. It is both welcome and in a strange sense, warm, prickling at the memory you have of hovering over the clawed grasp of your parent. No contact then either, just a voice, low and with a gentle hum of a buzz riding beneath the current of familiarity as it urged you, told you, to _soar_.

You sometimes remember that out here, where there is no real touch except maybe for the glancing flutter of your siblings' wings as they scrape past your skin in a mad dash for food.

And then, at the centre of your vision, lava flows. It curls like water, drifting into space with a flare that blends into a gold, a glow that is not quite gas, but not entirely liquid either. It curdles, slips out into the darkness like an invader and with it, brings warmth. You feel the heat flow, basking your wings with the light freed from a star and you feast, gorging yourself on the plasma trail left behind.

For a moment, relaxing in the new temperature that rolls through your gut, you forget the memory.

* * *

'You think too much,' says Sixth-born sibling.

'No, not think, dream,' murmurs Seventh.

You stare at them, into their eyes, still a great deal bigger than your own. You have grown, yes, but their wingspans still outstrips yours, extending with flaps that pull them through the darkness like the push of light you see expelled from the ends of the many space cruisers that cut against your path. And yet, these two always wait, always hover, letting their wings beat a steady blue against your vision, until you finally, eventually, catch up.

They possess what you suppose should be labelled as kindness.

'But what else is there to do?' you ask, wondering if they will have some kind of answer. 'Feed? That's...that's boring.'

You pause, struck by the concept, and your two siblings shift uncomfortably.

'Not true!' snaps out Sixth-born. 'We learn. We see different stars, taste them, and learn to seek out the plasma that suits us best.'

'Also,' adds Seventh, 'we grow. We grow so that our mouths can grow with us. I remember when we had words in our heads, and no way to say them. That sucked.'

You remember Fifth-born pushing First, and Second tailing Thirteen, chirping pitifully. Yes, you remember how strange it was, not to have voices. And stranger still, to know that you wanted one.

'How did we know these words?' you ask. 'Where did they come from?'

The two shift again.

'Thinking,' hisses Sixth. 'Too much thinking!'

'Maybe from Parent?' offers Seventh, with a hopeful glance to a nearby star.

'It doesn't matter!' snaps out Sixth. 'When we are older we will go home and find others of our kind. They will know, and we can ask!'

Then they flutter off, in a huff, to the star Seventh-born is still eyeing with a hungry tilt of the head.

Home, you think. There is no doubt, that Sixth-born is referring to the world that calls to you through your veins, tugging at your blood with a magnetic force that yanks on your tiny wings. It makes you drift after your siblings, even as you trail further and further behind, whispering to you all the while. _Home_ , it whispers to you, _home_.

And you think of white, far from the black that now blankets your body, white, that covers the ground with a crystal glaze, sprinkled over the tops of mountains on other worlds, the ones you have skimmed over just for the sake of curiosity. And yet, for all that, you were not born there.

Home, you think, where Parent is not.

* * *

You do not reach home; it is too far, light years and light years away. Instead you find yourself basking in a world similar to the one in your head, both dusty with snow and filled with the beat of adult wings, all much larger than your own. Perhaps it is simply a pit-stop for Necrofiggian travellers, or maybe it is simply pot-luck, but it has dropped you here, regardless, so that you can become distracted by snow drifts, diving through them just for the hell of it. And then you are distracted further, finding First-born shoving Fifth into a powdery hill, and Thirteen sitting on a log while stroking Second's wings.

For it is strange, how even now, despite the distance between you, you can always find them.

'Do you have names now?' you ask them.

First snorts, while Fifth giggles.

'Nope. We're still numbers. Just lousy numbers.'

Thirteen looks up, and then, rather pointedly, goes back to stroking Second's wing. Second-born, for their part, simply huffs, and shakes off some snow lining the coil of their antenna.

'Names?' they ask loftily. 'What good are names? Will they fill our stomachs? Hah!'

...Perhaps it is better if you go and seek out Sixth and Seventh. They might have words you will actually want to listen to.

* * *

You find Seventh-born much sooner than you'd like. Their wings spill out in tatters upon the ground, the blood beneath running yellow in the snow. Great leaking tracks of it cover the space in the trees that should provide shelter, flecking into the cracked bark as the trunk shivers and snaps in two.

And the Psycholeopterran above salivates, its form casting shadows over the fallen branches while its jaws crunch down on what is left of Seventh's arm. You look around wildly, but there is no sign of the rest of Seventh's body. And you suddenly feel wild and unstable, a great shout launching up from your chest. One which has no words.

You charge, become a ghost, passing through the line of the Psycholeopterran's body to breathe ice against its insides. For the second you are solid, you are careful, very careful, not to look within the round pod of its stomach. And then suddenly you are out again, inside the real world, one full of noise as the Psycholeopterran screams, slumping down with blue blood choking its tongue.

You stare, caught by the pattern of spirals in its eyes before something shoves you, to the side -

 _Parent is there, and Sixth and Seventh, and even Fifth and Third and First and – no they are all there, inside the crater of their birth. You, they,_ _we_ _, all hover and circle, Parent always in the centre of our orbit so that their great hand can reach up to stroke past the glide of little wings and find faces, to finally, finally touch and skim the surface of the skin._

 _Because this is what it feels like to feel real and warm and touched, you always knew it, this is what it feels like to come home and feel_ -

-and suddenly you fall out of there.

'Quick!' hisses Sixth in a near shout. 'Quick! This way!'

You follow.

* * *

Sixth-born is anxious, bobbing and weaving through the air as though afraid that the Psycholeopterran will rise again, the grind of their teeth audible within the small space of the cave they have dragged you inside. And yet, you are not sorry. Something burns inside your chest, filing the whole of your frame. It makes you want to lift up and up, far above this world to...

'That was stupid,' Sixth-born suddenly breaks in to whisper against your face. 'So, so stupid! You're not a hero! Not like Parent.'

The last word is hissed like a curse, but you feel something coarse through you in a sudden, sharp thrust of hope.

'Parent?' you ask.

Sixth scoffs. 'We went, I and Sev-' they choke on the incomplete name, now, you think sadly, forever a number. And Sixth falters, almost forgetting to hover, barely sweeping round the side of a nearby stalagmite, before they collect themselves. 'We went to see others of our kind. Older ones. And they had names. Proper ones. Their parents named them, before they sent them up into space.' They laughed hollowly. 'Then one of them asked us our own. And what could we tell them? Only numbers. Numbers we had given ourselves. And you know what they said?'

You tilt your head. And Sixth-born takes a breath.

'I guess the rumours about Tennyson were true.'

* * *

Tennyson. Ben Tennyson. You have a name. More than that, you have a legend.

* * *

You don't ask anyone to come with you. You look, but aside from Sixth, First, Second, Thirteen and Fifth, you cannot find your siblings. There are no longer any magnets pulling beneath your skin, and no needles, with invisible thread, to yank you across the tundra to their sides. You do not stop, too long, to think on what that probably means.

It still feels a little too...human, to actively grieve another's death. But you can remember Seventh and the way they pulled you along with Sixth to the light of the stars, and the way the blue of their wing cast a shade through the darkness of space. You remember them, both of them, as guiding beacons.

Now there is only one. And this time, they _follow_ _you_ to Earth.

* * *

Parent is strange, without the guise of memory to hide or soften his features. More importantly, he is strange because now he longer wears the skin you saw him in last. His face, when he sees you, tightens. It squeezes, like the sponge-like creatures you have seen in the lakes of the world you flew from, lines and crevices breaking into the skin above his eyes.

You squeal. 'Don't crack! Don't crack!'

'...What?'

Even his voice is different.

'Don't die! I don't want to lose you as soon as I found you!'

The lines lift, fade away. And it dimly occurs to you that they, perhaps, are similar to the muscles that gather above the eyes of a Necrofriggian in anger, rolling down like a storm to press on the green orbs beneath and make them crease. Still, you think, this would all be so much easier if he were not so... _human_.

'Oh!' he says, with a laugh, one that you think sounds only a _little_ strained. 'I get it! I guess Kevin was wrong about you guys...'

'Wrong?' pipes up Sixth-born, and you back away slightly. You don't like the shape of their glare.

'Yeah, a friend of mine.' A hand reaches up to scratch at the back of his head, and you wonder if it is some strange gesture of greeting. 'He said that you probably wouldn't come back. That you didn't need to, or something. That you had to get strong and stuff, out in space eating solar plasma.'

Looking at him, at how small and skinny he seems next to the bulk of adult Necrofriggians, a possibility dimly flicks into mind.

'Are you an adult?' you ask.

His smile tilts just a little, at the corner. 'No. Well, I guess not legally speaking...' he hedges, but he sounds amused, his voice ending on a soft little whine at the end.

Sixth snorts. 'This explains sooo much. Can we go now? He can't help us.'

'Help?' Now the lines are reappearing upon Parent's face and he sounds firmer all of a sudden, much more like the adult you have pictured him as. 'Are you guys in trouble? What sort of trouble? Maybe I _can_ help.'

Already he is lifting his wrist up, letting the famous watch they have heard stories about flicker with an odd green glow.

'You're a little late,' says Sixth-born bitterly, 'besides, it doesn't matter. Most Necrofriggians don't have much of a bond with their parents anyway. And you have to play hero for the rest of the galaxy anyway. We can't expect you to grant any of your extraordinary attention to us.'

Parent's eyebrow lifts. 'Ooookay, detecting a little hostility there. Look, why don't you tell me the problem and I'll be the judge of whether I can do anything or not.'

This seems to be a little much for Sixth-born, because they explode. 'Can you resurrect the dead? Can you bring Seventh-born back? Can you make it so that they were never _eaten_?'

Parent goes very, very pale. And you wonder if this is some sort of survival technique to blend in with all the non-existent snow that fails to lurk on the roofs of these tall buildings...well, okay, perhaps not. Must just be a strange human thing.

You look at Parent. 'I was just going to ask you if you could give us some names,' you offer weakly.

* * *

Parent takes you to a strange wonderland called Mr Smoothies. You're not even sure how he managed to coax Sixth-born along, but perhaps there is something nestled there, along with all the anger, that wants to give in. Either way, he gives you strange white containers, that bend and dip to match the contours of your claws and anxiously promises you new flavours, if you'll only stay and listen.

Sixth snorts again, and you fight the urge to flick them with your wing. 'Bribing us? Classy.'

'Well, it's nice to see you've inherited my attitude, at any rate,' mutters Parent and then he sighs, flopping forward so that his fringe gives way to the surface of the table. Then he sighs again and lifts his face up, fixing them both with tired eyes.

'Where's the guy who...you know...ate...'

'Ate Seventh?'

'Yeah. That.'

'Dead,' says Sixth flippantly and then takes a slip of something called 'Runny-cherry-chocolate.' They stiffen, wings popping open as their antenna becomes ramrod straight. 'Huh. It's weird...eating, or I guess drinking, something cold.'

Parent grins weakly. 'Solar Plasma is pretty hot, huh?'

Sixth doesn't answer, their attention firmly caught by the flavour descending down the straw. It makes something tug on your chest, a faint memory of when you all used to gather round stars and sip at the storms they brought forth, siphoning off the light that boiled and bubbled through the black sky.

'Yes,' you answer, 'it is. It burnt, but it didn't hurt. It was kind of weird though. So different from the rest of space.'

Parent is quiet for a moment. 'So the Psycholeopterran is dead. You sure?'

'Yes,' says Sixth, pulling themselves away from the straw long enough to chuck out a reply. 'Fourteenth played hero.'

Parent looks at you and you see his lips twitch. 'Huh,' he says. 'How about that.'

Something warm springs up through your ribs, something similar to the dream the Psycholeopterran made you play out in your head. You don't understand what it means but it makes you bend down, away from Parent's eyes to sip at your straw. And bubbles, the colour of tar, instantly flush down your throat, forcing you to choke on the rich aroma that spills up from them. It tastes nothing like plasma. But it is not bad, all the same.

* * *

Your return trip through the stars is bad. Bad because you cannot feel the spread of space beneath your wings, bad because the blackness is locked in through squares of glass with the crawl of metallic grey roaming around the windows. The stars should not look like that, trapped inside the foam of technology. And you cannot even slip outside, fearing to ghost through the walls and find yourself left behind and lost once again.

'Ben,' says Parent's friend. 'You cannot slaughter the Psycholeopterrans, if indeed there are any more there. It might easily turn into a case of genocide, especially considering their endangered status.'

Parent's eyes do something funny then, and you follow the roll of his pupils, intrigued, as they swirl around the liquid white, first up, and then down.

'I'm not going to slaughter anyone. I'm the hero, remember? I'm just going to...scare them a little. That way they won't ever think of touching my kids again.'

'How heroic,' mutters the friend, and you find yourself liking him, simply because his colour is a mild reflection of your own. 'Ben, do I need to point out the flaw in your thinking? Everything needs to eat. And even if you scare them, _all_ of them, they are not going to check, each time they track down a Necrofriggian, whether they are related to you or not. It is simply not feasible.'

'The why did you even bother to come along, Rook! Look, if you can't come up with a more 'feasible' solution, then maybe you should just shut up.'

Rook's mouth become a tight line at that, and his grip on the steering wheel becomes a little more firm.

'I am sorry that you lost a child,' he says. 'And I also am sorry that you feel the need to lash out at me. But Ben, make no mistake. This cannot end well.'

Parent turns and looks out the window with a sigh, his chin resting on his hand.

'Maybe I should have just paid Rad for the trip,' he mutters.

'I still would have followed you', Rook says steadily. 'As I always do. You are too angry for me to let you do this alone.'

Parent simply snorts and squishes his nose flat against the window.

* * *

There is no fanfare when Parent arrives. No celebrations or fuzzy spark to race against your insides and tell you that you have found somewhere to belong. Indeed Parent himself, very much looks as though _he_ does not belong, appearing both pink and pale against the snow. He shudders inside his jacket, sleeves barely touching the tips of the pockets that he shoves his hands inside.

You offer to gather the others, but Parent shakes his head.

'No. It's not that I don't wanna see them, but...' he hesitates. 'I'm human, most of the time. And I'm sorry, but I still feel mostly like a kid. I might do more harm than good, if I try to act all dad-like to you now.' Then his stance firms. 'But what I can do is make sure none of those Psycholeopterrans are around here to chomp down on you.'

And in a brief flare of light, he is suddenly gone, replaced by a familiar shape, one that has haunted you for the duration of your life.

'Big Chill,' he breathes, and you gasp at the vast blueness of him, at the way all of you could fit into the shelter of his wingspan. Then, with an inquisitive tilt of his head, he breaks into the moment you have been captured by to let out a comment. 'Wow. Looks like the Omnitrix is on its best behaviour today.'

And then, with a dip, a swirl, and a ghostly close of his wings, he vanishes into the ground.

'Oh good,' Rook says dully, hefting his weapon back onto his shoulder. 'I will just wait here for your eventual return then.'

'No one asked you to come!' You snap out and Rook looks at you, eyes slightly wide and possibly shocked. Then a wry grin crawls over his face.

'Ah, yes, just what the universe requires: more Tennyson attitude.'

You don't know how to respond to that. A Tennyson? You never really considered that. To have not just a name, but one denoting a family group. In fact you don't think any of you, really, ever considered what it meant to have humanity scattered in amongst your ancestry. It is something that does not feel as though it can fill the blood in your wings.

* * *

Parent returns in a blaze of blue.

'You know, for an endangered species, there sure seem to be a lot of them flying about,' he comments lowly. His voice is tight vice of anger, and it makes Rook straighten slightly. Even Sixth-born glances over, their antennae half-cocking with interest. 'I counted ten within two kilometres. I don't know if some well-meaning environmentalist has been having some sort of breeding extravaganza...' He stops to shudder. 'But someone's been busy.'

Rook makes a helpless movement, something caught between a shrug and a placating gesture. 'They have been released into a place that is similar to their natural habitat. Not to mention the fact that their favoured prey seems to make a habit of coming here. I do not think there is much the Plumbers can do.'

Ben stares at him.

'Are you gonna help me get rid of them or not?'

Rook narrows his eyes.

'I never said I would not help. But I am little anxious to know what you mean by 'getting rid of.''

'Drive them away, out of here,' Ben says promptly. Then he laughs darkly. 'But if I see them munching on anyone, least of all my kids...'

Rook nods slowly.

* * *

It is slow, hard work. Parent flutters through the sky as bait, coaxing Psycholeopterrans into clearings and wide open spaces, where he can switch back into something called Gutrot, and let loose a fine powder that glitters with a shimmer finer than stars. It lands in the Psycholeopterrans' eyes and makes them fall, half-dead to the world as though something inside the gleaming specks has caused invisible swirls to form inside their now-closed eyes.

And then Rook's ship glides forwards, out of the trees, and they all roll the unconscious body inside, before lifting it away, far away, to a nearby market, or sanctuary, anywhere that _probably_ won't result in immediate death. Or at least -

'Anywhere,' Parent verbalises, 'that isn't here.'

They repeat this process again and again, until finally, Parent is bent at the knees, his sweat coiling into ice against his brow.

Rook stares at him. 'We have missed our daily patrol time.'

Parent spits out a laugh.

'...and you do not care,' Rook says. But he does not sound angry. Just perhaps, a little sad.

'Are you guys, safe now?' Parent asks, his eyes flickering between you and Sixth-born. He's still hunched over, and each word is spat out, side-lined into another gasp for oxygen, but his eyes look firm.

Sixth shrugs. And they're right because-

'Nowhere's safe,' you tell Parent. 'Not ever.'

His face crumples slightly.

'At least,' Rook says softly, 'we tried to make it a little safer.'

Parent lowers his face slightly. Then lifts it. 'At least...look, maybe I don't have the right, but I feel pretty bad, not giving you names so...'

'The others won't accept them,' Sixth cuts in harshly. 'Not because they hate you,' they add, a little more softly, 'but because they're happy the way they are. They don't really want anything to change. But I'll at least consider what you're offering.'

'And I,' you say, 'have always, always, _always_ wanted something from you. A name would be awesome.'

Parent smiles.

* * *

You take off for the stars with At-altitude. You're still not complete, not fully-whole, but maybe that's something you need to find for yourself, rather than expecting Parent to fill in the gap for you. Besides. He's promised you as many smoothies as you want, whenever you next feel the urge to visit.

'Come along, Ice Cubed,' snarls At-altitude, 'I can see a pink star a few vectors over. _And I want it._ '

Funnily enough, you do too.

* * *

 **Notes:** At-altitude was meant to be a combined pun of attitude and altitude, but I fear it may have fallen a little flat. And as for Ice Cubed...well, it's sort of Ben's way of saying the volume or the inside doesn't match the outside appearance. Ice Cubed did manage to take down something a lot bigger than themself after all.


End file.
